The Modern Gaul
by Peridot Tears
Summary: "My room. Tonight. Delphi Hotel. Bring a tin of those condoms." In which Greece decorates condoms with porn and America is a stud. Dear God, what've I done.


_Disclaimer: Naw, naw—that was Bebe's kids' –shot-_

_..._

The ocean was blue like eyes.

Greece breathed deeply, the white foam splashing about in fickle patterns. They mattered and flew apart, the water receding sapphire—it was a sight one could never tire of.

Somehow, the sound of America laughing and splashing around in them was actually bearable—boisterous as always, the nation's hair darkened, and his eyes matched the water itself. In the sun, his skin glistened like oiled bronze. Greece tried to imagine him as a flaxen-haired Gaul, a blue-eyed German—America could fit into the ancient world quite well with that appearance. Strong and pale.

And then, before he could stop himself, Heracles found himself eyeing the tone—the ripple of sinew, bumping up and down like waves in the arms...America's stomach, containing eight packs of power...the legs, slim and tapered and bulging all at once. Greece blinked—he saw bodies like this, all the time, but here... Mesmerized, he stared at the childish nation, hardly nineteen in body, at the way his oiled limbs swung about—child's play rarely looked so strong!

"GREEEEECE!" he shrieked, happily; he gained a blink in reply. This was...more childish than usual. His voice was pleasant, though, so he minded little. "YOUR WATER IS FRICKIN' BLUE! WHY IS IT SO BLUE?" Muscles heaving, he disappeared, stroking beneath the surface to deeper water.

Blinking more, owlishly now, Heracles watched the pale form, moving like a shark beneath the waves. He had once told France that the early Olympic games—from his mother's time, in fact—had men performing naked. For a moment, he could appreciate it; he had grown up with so much pornographic pottery that he had come to be used to it. Still, the human body remained beautiful and timeless, like the Mediterranean water; America's physique was especially...outstanding, he thought.

—And then he came.

America came back, arms flailing so fast, Greece could hardly see the flight; he was laughing, slim body scraping up against the pebbles with incredible speed; Greece jumped, and Alfred stood up, laughing loudly in that strange way of his, exclaiming, "The water's great! Why don't you get in too? Ahahaha!"

He was still laughing when Greece finally spoke, his words chosen carefully—"Because...there are sea urchins in there..." Even he could feel a twinge of fear himself; the urchins had caused him much pain in the past. "Stepping on them...swells your foot...up, and the spines are hard—to get out."

The laughter had died, but the stupid grin was still stretched across the American's face; really, nothing could faze him. He listened dumbly as Greece spoke, not quite sure whether or not to interrupt with the usual "But I'm a _hero!" _That did not stop him from saying it once Greece had finished, and then—as a little bonus with that smile of his—added, "And I'm so awesome, they'll just bounce off my feet! They're so small, I can't step on them!"

"I highly doubt it," was the soft reply, but America had already decided to start poking him, disregarding the threat of sea's hedgehogs.

"C'mooooon," he chided, each poke becoming harder and harder to ignore. "I'll be your best friend!—not that we aren't already, but still! The water's awesome! And it's hot!" he added, ignoring the strong breeze. "It's really warm..."

A moment of silence—when Alfred received no reply, he huffed. "You're like England, except England won't shut up. Are you being a prick to me?"

And when Greece turned to look at him, blankly, he backpedaled. "No, no, I didn't mean that!" He flailed his arms wildly, narrowly missing the silent nation, receiving no more reaction. "There's nothing worse than being England!—I mean, how does he live, breaking his teeth against his biscuits like that? I've never seen it, but he's got to have! Why else would he have gold teeth?—but then again, his food isn't that bad... But still, come swim with me! It'd be great! You'll be swimming with the hero itself! Did I offend? I know England's terrible, but—"

(Had Arthur or another nation been there as well, he would tell him straight up that he was babbling; Greece, however, was Greece.)

"No..."

America stopped talking. The sky seemed to take a breath.

"I'm not offended. But...it's not really hot. I don't think...one swim would be too bad..."

"Oh, great!" Alfred beamed, his smile blindingly white. Greece thought he looked like Ares himself, but with the warmth of Dionysus. Dionysus—warm and happy and full of life. God of drink; but with the physique of Ares, always so ready to fight. Heracles pondered this as he looked Alfred over—glistening skin, oiled joints, diamond muscles. It suddenly struck him that he was attracted; still, this was a body an Olympic champion would envy; many men from his mother's time would have killed to have it, not to mention a modern athlete. His mother would have loved it, he was certain.

He blinked twice. Curious—was Alfred truly this attractive?—he stuck out in the midst of the water, the sky, the seam between them. Greece plucked a pebble from the ground, studying the lines and shades sanded into it, geology proudly displaying worn grooves, intricate design. He liked complications—fine detail was something his mother valued, something that he grew up with. Though he was not so proud of the idea of his ancient statues losing color and becoming white marble, it gave one a chance to look past the gaudy colors, to see the lifelike construction of the artist.

He blinked again. Babbling. He was babbling, silently. He had a penchant for letting his mind fly about, and he minded little—was that not what philosophers had done? Even in the modern world, he let ancient times haunt him, snaking gorges in his past, ruts so deep, accumulating silt and rain. They were part of him.

And there he went again. Dropping the pebble, he let America's hand—_warm, wet, big, rough—_wrap around his arm, tugging insistently. Alfred was gushing with elation, talking about how much fun they were going to have, how it was a nice break from politics, how he was the nicest European ever...

The water was cold. Cool, really. Greece smelled salt, smelled chatter of nearby people, tasted air. He was not in the habit of smiling, but he felt like doing it at the moment—Alfred _was _doing well at being Dionysus, his hands large and excited, jumping up and down as he led him closer to the water. When he asked Heracles if he was sure he wanted to swim fully clothed, he was replied to with an absentminded nod. Undeterred, America took the plunge.

There was a loud splash as Greece fell in after him, skimming right above the pebbles. This was the closest one could have to flying in body, levitating in little eddying currents, moving quickly only when in the right drift. And America, he flew. Still holding Greece, he sped through the water with dizzying quickness, the former blinking in stifled astonishment. Really, this was a little...when was the last time he had witnessed such speed? Perhaps in Japan, but even then...Japan tired easily at those times, inconveniently enough. (Not because he was weak, or so old he could not hold his own...it was just terrible timing. That was all.)

Under the water, Greece's vision was fuzzy, wavering and watery; still, he could make out a clear outline of America, whose skin glowed in a cloud of what seemed to be liquid sapphire—the color, so despicably blue—(as Alfred would later put it, when comparing it to New York's gray docks)—wreathed about them, and America...America's stride was one of flying. Greece was not one to enjoy action; he preferred the calm and quiet of someplace under the sun himself. But the rush of water, the abyssal roar, spun in and out of his ears.

That was the second time his heart fluttered.

(The first time was for Japan. One could not live such a long life and expect to be of one heart.)

They surged upward then; Alfred's hand, warmth pulsing beneath his skin, touching through the water. They broke the surface, breathing air, the sun glittering in their eyes. Heracles blinked, inhaling. And Alfred was laughing—_"laughing his ass off," _as he would say—so boisterous, so bold. The hint of a smile touched Greece's face, as if some artist, a painter, could touch a brush to his lips and fix them, transfigure. Enraptured, he watched Alfred as he laughed, listened as he chattered, about how he knew he would like and, and he could see it clearly, even if he tried to deny it.

Heracles could appreciate that. This sound was a blissful one.

But then the moment broke. Alfred's face twisted as he took a step, stumbling; a look of pain crossed his face, looking somewhat like a pout. He let out a cry.

"Something bit me!" he cried, hopping up and down (it was by miracle that he did not fall!). There was nothing visible, but Greece hardly needed a brain to know that the problem was submerged. And before he thought of paraphrasing "Don't say I didn't warn you" aloud, he dipped beneath the water, if only for a closer look.

Sure enough—even as Alfred kicked about, even as Greece had to make a great effort not to be kicked in the face, he could see the spines embedded in the right foot, and the innocent urchin at the pebbly bottom. There were a few others, but farther off.

At the surface, he told him, upright, "You stepped on a sea urchin." His face twitched into a look of mild curiosity, green eyes scraping the surface of America's broad shoulders. They glistened and paled.

"But I couldn't have!" was the whine. "I'm the hero!" America took on a pout, one that made him look like a schoolboy...an exceptionally cute one from Sparta, perhaps. His physique was more like said Spartans'.

A raised eyebrow. "Then...you are suffering nobly."

Alfred's expression brightened, noticeably. "Yeah, that's right...," he said, tone suddenly changed. He spoke as if tasting candy, enthusiasm depending on its sweetness. "I'm a hero, so I'm suffering nobly, even in the face of pain..." He grinned. "You're awesome, Greece!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, well..." Greece blinked, turning. "We'll put some hot olive oil on that, and get the spines out. And then something to get rid of the infection..." He waded through the water.

"But a hero shouldn't lick his wounds!" Another pout; still, America splashed after him, anyway.

Why, thought Greece, could he not have heeded him? But the younger nation was pigheaded, just like an Olympian, or an Olympic champion. As set in his ways as Socrates had been, apparently. The man had been old, but that had not kept him from drinking hemlock and dying calmly, finally becoming divine. Alfred was nothing like that, just stubborn.

The sand stuck between their toes when they got to shore, America bouncing about with a squeak every so often, pebbles pressing on his now-swollen foot. He sat immediately, and a bystander from the nearby restaurant handed him the hot oil, having been passing by, but noticing that someone needed it. This was no new case.

"This will hurt," Heracles warned. The oil was warm. Alfred gave a somewhat undignified whimper, even with his outstretched foot. It was spread over the swell, the American watching with a mixture of nervousness and fascination. His foot was, by now, a large bloody mess, pink and streaked with red.

"Eww," he muttered, wincing at the heat of the oil. "That's...gross."

"It should not be...anything new."

(Alfred blanched. Of course he, like any other nation of the world, had had his own history of war and blood, and he had seen worse even without—still, this was a trivial situation, a slice of everyday life, without the war, in all his carefree ways.)

The moments drifted by, Greece tracing the shape of America's foot under the guise of applying more oil—which he was doing, anyway, so it was more an excuse than anything—and the latter watching. Eventually, Greece pulled the spines away, America giving one undignified yelp throughout the whole thing.

And that was when...

"Hey, Greece," America piped up, chatty as usual. "Are you kinky?"

The question was belated, and thus out of left field. Heracles blinked, rapidly. "Kinky?"

"Y'know!" Alfred flailed an arm, scattering a handful of pebbles. "Your condoms!" A group of tourists turned, mystified at the remark. "You have ancient porn on your condoms, your calendars, your playing cards...what's up with that?

"In fact, I even saw one with some chick watering a bunch of penises growing out of the ground! Dude, that was really _weird. _Why'd you have that?"

A pause. This was no new question, either, but Greece had to think a moment before answering. In the distance, the tourists snickered, muttering a few lewd remarks. "My mother liked them," he said. "She had a lot of them, and..." He contemplated telling him straight out that it was culture—old culture, and yet culture nevertheless. In a great addition, it attracted tourists. Alfred blanched as Greece made a thoughtful sound, a sort of hum as he wondered what to say. Still, Alfred was Alfred; he fired away—

"Dude, that was kinky. Holy shit, it was kinky, bro." His eyes lit up, the blue eyes childish and bawdily scheming all at once. "You should give one to England!" he chirped, and Greece was sure he felt a silent heart breaking somewhere. His own, he guessed. "He asked me for a rubber once, and it'll be extra-kinky because there's porn on it! And he obviously doesn't have a partner, so it'll just remind the geezer that he's too old to get it on. It'll be funny!" His eyes sparkled. "That could be, like, a way to get back at him for scaring the shit out of me every Halloween! C'mon," he said. "It'll be funny!—he's gonna get so mad, he'll probably spit out all his tea or somethin'. I wanna see that happen again. You can be my noble sidekick, too!"

An eyebrow twitched. Greece soaked it up, but America didn't stop there. He went on about the amount of condoms he could buy, the calendars and playing cards and how they could decorate England's entire house and give them the shock of his life—

"America!" he interrupted; his voice was not so loud, but louder than usual—in the background, the tourists were roaring with laughter now, and others stared quizzically, wondering what was going on—and firmer.

"Yes?"

"America...I..."

"Yeah?" Alfred blinked at him, patience already wearing out. Clearly, what Greece was going to ask was going to turn out...interesting.

He felt his face redden. "America...I..."

"Yea—"

"My room," he finished. America's eyebrows automatically flew upwards, vanishing in the forest of his hair. "My room. Tonight. Delphi hotel. Bring a tin of those condoms."

In the background, the tourists whistled, and half the beach was staring in bemusement. Someone covered the ears of the children. But Greece took no notice of that. He was staring intently at Alfred, whose wet, gleaming body shook like marble alive, as he was knocked speechless. A rare occurrence, needless to say. And the beach held its breath as America's eyes grew wider and wider by the second. Greece could feel a heat crawling up his face, and yet he was unusually cold.

"I—um..." America blinked rapidly. There was the sound of more breakage, and only Greece could hear it. "Well...yeah!"

Blink. And another blink.

But Alfred spoke, the usual person to break a silence. "Yeah! We'll party all night long!" Then he frowned. "But...uh...where's Delphi? Isn't that in..." He frowned some more before finishing, stopping just a breath short of naming one of his states. "That's...weird...I don't..."

It happened quickly, mercifully; he doubled over to the side, face suddenly pale, and vomited. Bystanders shrieked, retreating, and Greece jumped. He spewed out whatever had had for lunch, and it ran over the pebbles into the tide; some waiters from the restaurant ran out, alarmed, and there was a scene of mild chaos as America wiped his mouth, groaning, "Not. Cool!"

Greece hardly minded, though. He was, after all, the one who got to pull the heavy—_hard, warm, pulsing—_frame back and support it.

(Alfred cleaned out his mouth before they kissed that night, as well.)

...

_**PT: ...I have not written romance. In a while. Aha. A request from…someone. You know who you are. A—And I know I kind of stretched their personalities considering that their characters kind of...rarely interact, if ever. Oh God, what've I done...xD –shot- (Are you happy now, French one?—I turned America into a cute, idiotic, hot stud for you! xD –shot-) Yeah. I was requested to write these two. Tried to keep to character. And, um...this is based off my experience in Greece, too. Sort of. The beach is supposed to be Clovino beach, which is a pebble beach accessed through a restaurant. The stones there are really something...I collected a handful of them. We—me and my schoolmates—were warned to watch for the sea urchins. One of my schoolmates had the misfortune to step on one, and...um, yeah. The olive oil thing...the swollen foot and blood...I saw it myself. The same schoolmate went pale and threw up later that night, when we were in Delphi. (I was not at the scene, I just passed it...I was busy running down to a stand to retrieve my book, ahaha...-shot-) Also, yes, there's a lot of porn in Greece. Ancient pottery porn on souvenir playing cards—those, I found in the same stand I left my book in, and I snapped a couple of pictures xD—and calendars and books and even condoms in tins of three. And the pottery featuring a woman watering penises growing out of the ground...I saw that in a tiny book xD Yep. xD –shot- Also, Alfred's reaction to the water color is pretty much mine. I still can't get over how blue it is...xD**_


End file.
